


breathe

by luthien82



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Spoilers, Tearjerker, and me too, the fic that broke my beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthien82/pseuds/luthien82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone copes differently with the loss of their loved ones.</p><p> </p><p>Spoilers for the movie. If you haven't seen it, proceed with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe

**Author's Note:**

> So. I... don't know how this fic happened, but I'm pretty sure it can be traced back to [this pic on tumblr](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3kai3F0W81rv7ggzo1_1280.jpg) and the song "Brother" by Racoon. I guess there were a lot of feelings after I'd seen the movie, and they wanted out?
> 
> Eternal thanks to [chatona](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chatona) for the beta, even though I reduced her to tears.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Avengers is the property of Marvel Studios, Paramount Pictures, Joss Whedon and a whole lot of other people who are not me. No money is being made by the creation of this piece of fan work. No harm is intended, it's all in good fun.

* * *

Strangely enough, it was Clint who first noticed that something was wrong with Tony Stark.

Clint hadn’t exactly been cozy with SHIELD ever since Loki and... everything else. He came back in after he got the green light from Fury – the bastard had probably had to talk in circles to calm the Council down – but he wasn’t cleared for field assignments yet. Something about psychological evaluations. Probably didn’t want him to turn around and start shooting agents. Again.

So he took advantage of the shooting range to practice - when he could convince the quartermaster to hand him his bow - sparred with Natasha whenever she was around, or did paperwork. God, he still hated paperwork the most. It wasn’t fair that field agents had to deal with that crap on top of assignments too, but in the end SHIELD was just like any other government agency with the appropriate level of red tape.

(If he is doing his paperwork as meticulously as he knows how in remembrance of Phil, nobody will ever know. He sure as hell isn’t telling.)

He’d seen Stark around a few times when he came in with Banner to talk science with Fury, probably driving the old bastard up the wall with their Spearmint twins routine. But as the weeks passed by and Clint could see past his own… _issues_ … he noticed Stark’s face grew wearier and more drawn every time Clint saw him. He couldn’t even say why it got his attention because as far as he could tell, nobody else seemed to think anything was amiss. But Clint had been trained to see even the most miniscule details so he didn’t miss the first signs.

He started watching Stark after that, every time the guy was at SHIELD’s headquarters. It wasn’t even hard; Stark was so preoccupied with whatever was running through his head that he didn’t notice his shadow. Clint was almost disgusted by how easy it was to tail him, and in a government facility no less.

He got a lot of intel during that time. He saw Stark on the phone doing weird, stoic faces at whoever was on the other end, trying not to give anything away and making it easier for Clint to ascertain that something was wrong. The real shocker was when Stark shouted at whoever he was talking to and then immediately apologized. Huh, well that was certainly new. Clint hadn’t pegged Stark as the type to apologize to _anyone_ except maybe Pepper.

But that wasn’t the only thing he noticed. While Stark had always been a workaholic at the best of times, his hours increased to almost insane levels. Some days Clint wasn’t even sure when the last time had been that Stark had slept, because he didn’t seem to leave SHIELD HQ at all. Which, okay, was even weirder. Usually Stark sought shelter in his own laboratory at home, not at SHIELD.

Clint was growing _concerned_ here, and wasn’t _that_ a totally novel concept?

(He wishes he had Phil to go to, ask him for advice or sic him on Stark instead. He’s always known how to handle Stark when he was having one of his moods. Phil had been fearless in that regard.)

It came to a head one night when he found Stark slumped against a wall in the corridor to the labs. He wasn’t even supposed to _be_ at headquarters tonight, as far as Clint knew. He should be at some sort of charity function regarding the new Stark Tower or whatever; office gossip was heavily unreliable when it came to what Stark was really up to. But no, Stark was here, and not even dressed for a function of that magnitude. Instead he was wearing a ratty Black Sabbath t-shirt and a simple pair of jeans.

“You okay?”

The words were out of Clint’s mouth before he even knew it, not only startling himself but Stark as well. He straightened up so fast Clint was concerned he might sprain something. But when he saw Clint at the end of the hall, he seemed to consciously relax again and just shrugged.

“Peachy,” he drawled, smiling suggestively.

Clint didn’t buy it for even a second.

“You and I define ‘peachy’ very differently then,” he said, walking over slowly.

A muscle jumped in Stark’s cheek. Clint smirked. ‘Gotcha.’

Silence reigned, but Clint was patient. He was a _sniper_ , for fuck’s sake, he could wait Stark out on a bad day. The guy was like a puppy on speed, never able to sit still for long, much less keep silent.

He seemed stubborn to try this time around. Ignoring Clint, he stared at the opposite wall of where he was leaning while his hand was absently playing with his phone. Clint crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall next to Stark.

“I think I’m losing Pepper.”

That… was not what Clint had been expecting. His eyebrows lifted in surprise while he stared at the side of Stark’s face. The same muscle as before was jumping in his cheek, probably because he didn’t like Clint’s scrutiny.

Clint turned until his back was flush against the wall, his arms still crossed over his chest but his gaze dropping away from Stark. “How so?” he asked neutrally, giving Stark the chance to compose himself if he needed it without Clint looking at him.

It seemed to help. After a long while he heard Stark inhale and let the breath slowly out between his teeth. Then, “I don’t even know. She’s just... I can’t seem to reach her anymore. She’s... shut herself off. From me.”

Clint was surprised Stark had told him _this_ much. They barely knew each other, only had that one assignment together under their belts. But hearing the words leave Stark’s mouth struck Clint in a place he’d thought numb ever since... ever _since_.

(Phil wouldn’t have any problems with telling Stark to man up and ask Pepper what is wrong, undo whatever he’s screwed up. But Clint isn’t Phil, and he doesn’t know her the way Phil does. They’ve been _friends_ and Clint is nobody to her.)

“How long’s this been going on?”

He didn’t know what else he could say, so he tried to get a handle on how fucked up this whole thing might be already. If this had only been going on for just a few weeks it might still be salvageable. Maybe he could ask ‘Tasha for advice. She had worked with Stark and Pepper Potts before, she might know what to do.

“Ever since Loki tried to destroy New York,” Stark said, quietly.

Clint barely managed to stop the curse that welled up in his throat. He was by no means a relationship expert but even _he_ knew that almost five months of tension was pretty much a death certificate when one of the two involved was unwilling to talk about it.

(He and Phil had one rule, and they’ve always abided it: conversation is key. They never broke the rule, always talked about and told each other everything. The fact that Clint didn’t get a chance to say good bye still tears him apart.)

“Maybe you should... let her go,” Clint said, hesitating. “Cut your losses.”

Stark was eerily quiet, not dismissing the idea outright, which told Clint enough about the whole fucked up situation, really. Stark had obviously thought about that possibility, too.

Stark grimaced, stared down at his hands and his phone, his thumb stroking over the surface. Then he said in a small, pained voice, “I _can’t_.”

And Clint got it. If you’d found that one person who was everything to you, you couldn’t just let them go without a fight. And you clung to every little shred of hope you had, hoped that everything would turn out to be okay just so you wouldn’t be _alone_ again. And then you inevitably came to a point where you couldn’t delude yourself anymore and had to accept the truth.

(Clint is still waiting for Phil to suddenly knock on their front door and tell him that he’s been undercover, not permitted to contact anyone and that he’s sorry for breaking Clint’s heart. So far, his hopes haven’t been met.)

Clint nodded, pushing away from the wall. “Think about it,” he said, turning to go. Before he left the hall, he threw over his shoulder, “You’re not alone anymore, you know?”

He didn’t see Stark for almost two weeks after that little encounter, and when he did, he looked wrecked. Some people were looking strangely at him now, so it wasn’t quite as low key as it’d been before. Clint didn’t have to ask what was wrong, not this time. He had a pretty good idea what it was.

Stark tried to go about his day, tried to put up a front, but even Clint cringed at how very much not okay the guy was. Clint wasn’t even sure why he was hiding at SHIELD of all places instead of his own labs, but the man probably had his reasons. Clint heard things over the office grapevine, that Stark was losing it, that he was manic, that he snapped at anyone whose IQ was lower than Dr. Banner’s which, yeah, included pretty much the whole lab crew.

Clint almost did a double take when he quite literally stumbled over Stark, sitting in a corridor in the lower bowels of HQ, somewhere near the shooting range - today hadn’t been a good one, the quartermaster had been adamant about keeping Clint’s bow under lock and key - and looking like his puppy had died.

Or as if the love of his life had left him.

“You in time out?” he asked, looking down at Stark.

Stark shrugged. “Got thrown out of the lab.”

Clint nodded, not really surprised. It’d just been a matter of time, really. Clint was by no means an expert in handling emotional stress, not even close. But he knew what made him feel better, at least for a little while, and maybe it would help Stark, too. So he nudged Stark’s foot with his own and said, when his head raised to meet Clint’s gaze, “Wanna go and shoot at shit?”

And that was how they found themselves in the outer parts of New York in some remote location, with Stark blasting things to smithereens with his Iron Man suit while Clint shot at unmoving paper targets. He could feel the coiled tension seep out of him slowly, with every bullet that struck dead center. He knew it wouldn’t help, not in the long run, but it patched up the hole in his heart that had him bleeding out slowly over the last six months.

(Phil had been amused the first time he accidentally groped one of Clint’s concealed weapons instead of the intended body part. ‘Should’ve known you’re a walking armoury,’ he’d said with his fond little smile. By the end they’d even had shared weapons. Clint has never done that with anyone. He’s never trusted anyone this much before.)

It took them both over an hour until they’d let off enough steam to not take anyone’s head off for looking wrong at them. They’d collapsed against the wall of an abandoned warehouse, breathing hard. Stark had taken off his helmet and stared into the slowly darkening sky. Clint let him be, closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

“I miss her every day,” Stark said suddenly, his voice sounding a little wet.

Clint didn’t open his eyes, swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He knew exactly how that felt, to miss someone with every fiber of your being and not being able to do anything about it. Knowing that the person who’d carried your heart wasn’t going to come back, not even long enough to give it back to you so you could _live_ again without hurting at every step you made.

“You’re allowed to,” he said after a long silence, his own voice rough with emotions. Stark didn’t say anything in return, but Clint felt him relax further. Maybe giving himself permission to grief now that Clint had said it was okay.

(Clint isn’t allowing himself the same weakness. Instead he’s winding himself around Phil’s pillow every night, breathes in his scent and tries not to notice that it’s as good as vanished by now. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when Phil’s scent has left for good.)

Weeks passed, and Stark got worse. Clint realized that he was in over his head here, that he would probably need help from the rest of the Avengers. Maybe Rogers would be able to pull Stark’s head out of his ass, but the team was incommunicado right now. Clint rarely knew where Natasha was, and he’d been working with her for years.

He tried anyway.

Banner wasn’t hard to find and he was on board almost immediately. Clint didn’t go into details, mostly because he didn’t know much anyway except the bare facts. Banner had been worried for weeks, and finally being able to help, at least a little because he understood the problem now, made a huge difference. Plus, he and Stark were both such science geeks that they’d bonded over it pretty much from the moment they’d met.

Or so Clint had been told.

Clint could see some improvements in Stark’s behaviour. Not as much as he would’ve liked, but some. Clint decided it wasn’t enough and that he needed to get out the big guns: he tried to track down Rogers.

It took longer than he would’ve thought, and maybe he was a little too invested now to make Stark be okay again. He knew he was projecting, but he pushed that thought away, put all his energies into tracking Rogers down instead. When he found him in the middle of nowhere helping orphans of all things, he almost felt a twinge of regret to pull him out of that just for Stark. But he didn’t even have to convince him. All he said was, “Stark needs us.” and Rogers followed him back to New York, no questions asked.

It was a beautiful sight, in the end, when he watched Rogers walk down the hall to the labs and give a head nod to the techs to leave him and Stark alone. They acquiesced and Clint watched Stark and Rogers talk through the glass doors, saw the tension leave Stark’s body, nodding along with whatever Rogers was saying to him. They talked for several minutes, and by the end Stark left the labs with Rogers’ guiding hand on his shoulder, clasping it in support or guidance or whatever. He was impressive with his calm, caring face; every inch Captain America.

(Clint wishes that Phil was here to see it. He would’ve loved the blossoming camaraderie.)

Stark really did get better after that. He was still not okay, but he improved by a mile after Rogers’ return. Him and Banner more or less moved in with him at Stark Tower, and Clint, for all that he was a loner and had his own apartment to boot, started to hang out with them more often than not. It was comforting, in a way, to have these people around and make the silence stop.

Natasha popped in once in a while, maybe checking up on them or trying to bond as well. Who knew? She’d always played her cards close to the chest. But she was there, and her gaze told Clint that she hadn’t forgotten, that she was watching him, that she was there if he needed her.

He ignored her silent messages. He was doing fine.

His world came tumbling down when they sent him Phil’s personal effects along with a letter from his lawyer. Apparently the papers had been lost in all the chaos and they’d only now resurfaced, making Clint the lone successor of Phil’s will. He clenched his jaw the whole time he sat in the solicitor's office, listening to him read out every last bullet point. When they were done, Clint stood up, shook the man’s hand, signed everything he was pointed to and left the office.

Everything else was a blur after that. He couldn’t remember coming home and getting out of his formal clothes he’d put on for the appointment. He couldn’t remember getting out his spare guns, cleaning them meticulously before snatching them up and leaving the apartment. He only really came back to himself several hours later when he blinked up at the ceiling of the warehouse where he and Stark had demolished shit all those months ago. His throat was hoarse and his eyes burned, and no matter how much he blinked the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

Stark found him, in the end.

Clint couldn’t even tell you how he’d known anything was wrong, much less where to look. But one moment Clint was alone in his grief, drowning in his sorrow and thinking about putting one of the guns into his mouth. Next thing he knew, Stark was standing over him, looking down at him with an all too knowing glint in his eyes. He sighed, crouched down and held out a hand for Clint to take.

“Let’s get drunk,” he said quietly, and Clint could’ve kissed him right then.

So they went back to Stark Tower, and Stark brought out the scotch. The good kind, the one that didn’t burn all your insides as soon as you swallowed it. Clint knocked the first one back without tasting the alcohol. Stark didn’t even bat an eyelash, just refilled the glass without comment.

They drank, and they talked about insignificant shit, and then drank some more. At last, when Clint’s limbs were pleasantly tingling and his brain had stopped screaming at him, he found himself sliding down the glass front of Stark’s penthouse, his back to New York and all the people who couldn’t understand, would never be able to understand.

But Stark could.

“Got a call from Phil’s lawyer today,” he rasped, not looking at Stark who’d slid down next to him. “Read me his will.”

“You got his trading cards?” Stark quipped, but oddly gentle for all that the question was insensitive as fuck.

Clint couldn’t help the broken laugh escape him. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, trying to hide both the involuntary smile and the tears that were threatening to spill again. Stark didn’t say anything else, let Clint put himself back together.

“We were married for three years,” Clint whispered at last, not looking up. The stunned silence from Stark said it all, really.

“Huh,” Stark said, after a long moment of silence. “Thought he was dating a cellist in Portland.”

Clint had to laugh again, remembered a night in bed in a hotel somewhere in the midwest, remembered Phil joking about opera music and cellists and how Clint was using his bow just as skillfully to lure him in as the woman they’d heard play that afternoon had.

“Ever heard of ‘euphemisms’, Stark?” he asked, turning his head to look at him. Stark’s eyes were sympathetic, not even a trace of his usual sarcastic humor. Clint’s throat closed up again when he realized that, for all that Stark had tried to drive Phil up the wall, he’d admired him a great deal and was missing him too.

Clint’s hand snuck to his chest, laid flat over his heart and feeling the small piece of metal on a chain, golden and warm from his own body. He’d never worn it on his finger but it’d always been with him, from the moment they’d been declared husbands.

“I don’t know how to _breathe_ without him,” he choked out before a sob wracked his whole body. He wished he’d have better self control so he wouldn’t fall apart in front of Stark, but he’d been forced to let go of his last hope today and it fucking _hurt_. He didn’t give a shit anymore who saw him grief because that’s what he was _doing_.

Stark’s hand came down on his shoulder, squeezing it tightly and anchoring him. He didn’t say anything else, just stayed by his side and let Clint fall apart.

“You’ll get there,” Stark said when Clint’s body finally stopped trembling and he could feel a headache creep up on him. He wondered for the first time since they’d arrived where Banner and Rogers were, but didn’t really have the energy to actually ask.

“It’ll get easier,” he added, and Clint looked up.

“Will it ever stop hurting?”

Stark’s eyes were sad, and so fucking _knowing_. He shook his head. “No. No, it won’t.”

Clint swallowed, nodded. He didn’t think it would.

“But you’ll get through it, one day at a time,” Stark promised him, a wistful little smile on his lips.

Clint moved into Stark Tower a few days later, leaving all the stuff he and Phil had shared behind. He needed to make a clean cut, however much it hurt. It was for the best. Stark and Rogers were helping him pack up his life, with Stark throwing in a few sarcastic comments here and there, answered by a fond eye roll from Rogers. Neither of them ever asked if Clint was okay. They didn’t have to, they already knew the answer.

It did get easier, with time. The pain never really went away, but Clint learned to manage it. And while he didn’t have Phil anymore, and still had moments sometimes where he couldn’t remember how to breathe properly, there was always one of his teammates to catch him and remind him, dragging him along until Clint was ready to do it on his own again.

He was fine.

(He still dreams of Phil knocking on their door and telling him he’s not dead, but it’s muted now, soft around the edges with time that’s passed. Clint isn’t hoping for a miracle anymore, he’s come to terms with the facts. But Phil is still there, in his dreams, and some days, that’s enough to keep Clint going.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to say that I am a firm believer of the Phil-Coulson-is-not-dead school of thinking! As I said, I don't know where this fic came from but I sure hope it was the last of its kind!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
